A Meeting of the Minds
by Ash10
Summary: Alone in the desert, his horse gone lame, Doc Holliday meets up with one of the Cowboys. Will a gunfight ensue or will the men discover they have more in common than not?


A Meeting of the Minds

John 'Doc' Holliday gave the mare her head. She wanted to run and he'd been holding her back until she warmed up some. Morning on the desert was the best time of day - the only time the beauty and diversity of southeastern Arizona could be appreciated at leisure. The backdrop of circling mountains floated above the landscape, enshrined in a wreath of white gauzy clouds resting like laurels on the broad shoulders. And the desert smells were intoxicatingly fresh and clean, invigorating to mind and spirit.

So the mare ran full out, black mane whipping, black tail a comet streaming out behind her. Doc gloried in the day and in the horse. Lost in the experience all his worries and needs fell by the wayside. He was not prepared when the fleet-footed animal caught her left foreleg in an animal burrow slamming horse and rider into the ground. Holliday was thrown clear of the falling horse but landed hard, rolling, luckily missing a large copse of prickly pear cactus. He came to a stop and was quick to his feet, his thoughts only on the mare.

She was standing and that was a good sign, but trembling, holding up her left front leg. Holliday feared the worst. Her fall had been a bad one and as he walked towards her he felt a lead weight against his chest, a terrible heaviness of heart. Her left flank was scraped and bleeding from several spots in the dark buff coat. But his worries centered on the injured front leg. Skittish, she calmed at the soothing familiar sound of his voice and his gentle touch against her body, even allowing him to run his hands down her leg, feeling for swelling or worse, a broken bone.

Exhaling a breath when he felt no breaks, Doc knew the mare was not out of the woods. Already the fetlock was swelling; he could almost see it as he watched; could feel it beneath his sensitive touch. Whipping off his silk scarf, he used it to bandage the leg, tight but not too tightly in case it continued to swell. He'd have to watch it closely.

Like an injured man needed water so Doc figured the mare could use a drink. Uncapping his canteen, he poured some into the palm of one hand and held it under her nose. Pushing her velvet muzzle into the makeshift container, she drank the little it contained. Doc poured in more and she drank that as well. When he figured she'd had enough, he took a sip. The canteen was nearly empty and he guessed they were some ten miles from the San Pedro River.

"Looks like we both walk, girl." Recapping the canteen, Holliday hung it from the pommel, gathered the reins in one hand and led the way.

Several miles into the walk and Holliday was feeling the strain, as was the mare. Her limp was more pronounced, her head hanging low. The scrapes on her flanks were minimal and the blood had caked and dried, but she looked a sight. The man looked little better.

Doc had made only a slight attempt to brush the adobe from his clothing. His body ached in several places from the fall and he was certain he'd badly skinned one knee, but all in all he'd come out of it in good shape. He looked worse than he felt, but he was hot and getting hotter. He felt the sweat itching his scalp beneath the black Stetson and swore that once he got back to Tombstone he'd purchase a hat of a lighter color, more suitable to the climate. Perspiration ran into his eyes and dragging a sleeve back across them did little besides smear the dirt. His right shirtsleeve had been torn in the fall and a flap of fabric hung down from his shoulder.

It was about this time Holliday realized he was being observed. At first he just had the feeling he was being watched. Glancing around, he saw no one. But the hairs on the back of his neck raised and the prickly feel only increased as he trudged on. The weight of his pistols was a reassurance, but then if someone paced him from a distance he'd be an easy target for a shooter of skill armed with a rifle. His own Winchester rested in the scabbard. Little comfort since there was no place around to take refuge. The surrounding area was slightly rolling but that was it. He'd passed no washes or arroyos and what trees there were offered no protection from a bullet. Cautious and alert was all he could be.

Sherman McMasters watched the stranger's slow progress through a pair of small military field glasses. He did not recognize the man, but then about all he could make out was that it was a man leading a limping horse. Closer, he'd have to get closer. It wouldn't be easy without being seen and already the man he watched had turned a complete circle checking the area. "Must have some sorta sixth sense."

McMasters was not the sort of man to stick his nose in where it didn't belong. But this country was harsh and often men just had to look out for each other. That was one thing that set Sherman apart from his previous group of comrades, the Cowboys. For them it was "all for one and one for all and every man for himself." Often chided for his sensibilities, McMasters had decided to call it quits with the red sash bunch. He'd miss some of the boys, that was sure, but others weren't worth another thought.

So McMasters watched the man's slow progress and mounting his horse, he rode closer and parallel to him, watching, just watching.

Often Holliday stopped to rest the mare. Her leg had swollen more and it was obviously very painful for her to walk. She put no weight on it whatsoever and at the last stop he'd given her what little remained in the canteen. He figured it to be several miles yet to the San Pedro. And still he was being observed and knew he was also being followed, though at a discreet distance. He hoped the mare could go on. If she faltered now, it would be over for her. He let her rest for some time before gently urging her onward. Responding to his quiet voice and soft touch, the horse followed.

The closer McMasters got the more he could see. With his field glasses he made out the man. Dressed roughly in cowboy garb, his identity took some moments to ascertain and at first Sherman couldn't believe it. But the pair of nickel-plated Colts, one at the hip, the other in the low shoulder holster proved the man to be Doc Holliday.  
"I'll be damned," he whispered.

Now McMasters' choice became a dilemma. He did not know Holliday. Oh he'd played poker with him once or twice and even bucked the tiger at Doc's faro table, but he knew the man only by reputation and that gave him pause. Would Holliday shoot first and ask questions later? Glancing once more through his binoculars, McMasters came to a quick decision. The horse had stopped moving, the animal's head hanging low, it looked about to go down. Shoving the field glasses back into their case and stuffing the case into his saddlebag, Sherman kicked his horse into a trot.

Holliday watched the man approach. Slipping around to the opposite side of the mare, he withdrew the Winchester from the scabbard, resting it across his saddle and easing the hammer back. When the stranger got within hailing range, he called out to him, "Stop right there and state your business!"

McMasters brought his horse to a stop and raised his hands, showing Holliday he held nothing but reins. He wore no sidearm, but a well cared for 'yellow boy' rested in a scabbard on his horse. "Whoa there! I don't mean no harm. You look like you could use some help's all!"

When Holliday said nothing in reply, Sherman added, "Name's McMasters, Sherman McMasters and you'd be Doc Holliday. I played poker with you the odd time or two. Bucked the tiger, too."

Doc squinted through eyes burning from perspiration and too much sun, but no amount of squinting caused him to recognize the stranger. To make matters worse, this McMasters wore the red sash of a Cowboy. But to be fair, the sash rightly set off his outfit that bespoke more vaquero than north-of-the-border wrangler. In certain circles McMasters had been mistaken for a Mexican. His command of Spanish was said to be remarkable, his clothing serving to perpetrate the myth. A grass green shirt was offset by a fancy leather vest hand-beaded by a woman of surpassing skill. Fringed leather chaps and almost garish Mexican silver spurs added to the look. A wide sombrero sat atop a head of dark curls that cascaded out from beneath. Surprisingly, the man's eyes were a bright blue in a youthful face darkened by the sun.

As Holliday thought, the mare huffed, painfully shifting her weight from side to side. He knew she was in a bad way and if something wasn't done soon, she would only get worse. Letting the hammer down on the rifle, but keeping it pointed in McMasters' general direction, Doc asked, "there water in those canteens?"

There were two canteens dangling from Sherman's pommel and he nodded. "One's full the other only half. You're welcome to what ya need."

McMasters slowly got down from his mount, removed the first canteen and walked over to where Holliday waited. As badly as Doc wanted the water he wasn't sure if he should trust this fellow. The mare snuffed again, maybe she'd scented the water, and Holliday made his decision. He slid the Winchester away and walked around to meet McMasters. "My horse could use some...and thanks."

Doc reached for the canteen, uncorked it and removed his Stetson. Into the hat he poured some of the water and held it beneath the mare's mouth. She drank it down and that which followed.

While she drank, McMasters hunkered down and gently checked her fetlock, whistling under his breath. He looked up at Holliday. "Pretty bad. Reckon she found herself some righteous hole to step in, huh?"

"She did, but I consider it my fault. Allowed her to run when I should've reined her in. I didn't know the layout of the land." Finally, when the canteen was all but empty, Holliday held it out to McMasters.

"You need it more than me, go ahead," Sherman urged.

But instead of drinking from the canteen, Holliday reached into his saddlebag and retrieved a tin coffee cup into which he poured himself a drink. The water was warm and tasted tinny and there was some residue in the bottom, but to Doc nothing tasted better except maybe a glass of really fine aged brandy, maybe.

McMasters got to his feet. "Think she'll make it to the river?"

Holliday began to cough. It was harsh and wet and doubled him over in its ferocity. Covering it against his sleeve, it was a moment before he answered. "Now that she's had some water, she'll make it. She's no quitter." His eyes watered from the effort of the cough and his complexion was even redder than it had been from just the heat and sun.

Watching the other man, McMasters was surprised Holliday was so young. He'd never seen him in the light of day, only in the darkened Oriental Saloon where yellow light cast odd shadows and hid what was real behind those shadows, diffusing it, twisting it. Maybe that was a good thing when a man was a gambler. But out here in the light, in the desert, in the world, it was easier to see a man for what he was and who.

Holliday had turned to the mare and was caressing her ears, soothing her. She nickered softly and McMasters, who'd been around horses and stock all his life, saw there was a bond here and that surprised him, too. A man who cared for an animal couldn't be bad, not all bad no matter what was said about him.

"I believe you're right, Doctor Holliday. She's a fine mare and anybody with half an eye could see she wouldn't quit on you." McMasters smiled.

But if Sherman could see into Holliday, so then could Doc see into him. Suddenly the weight of the guns he carried was negligible since he didn't believe he'd be using them any time soon. McMasters' smile wasn't one of those phony expressions a man plastered onto his face when he was attempting deceit. Holliday had seen enough of those across a poker table to know. Plus, had McMasters meant him harm, he could've easily taken advantage of the coughing spasm to accomplish it. With trepidation quickly evaporating, Doc accepted the man.

"Call me Doc or John if you prefer, but I find Doctor Holliday just a bit pretentious at the moment." Holliday held out his hand and McMasters shook it.

"Folks generally call me Sherman," McMasters replied. "If she's rested enough, we should be making some time."

Time was made but slowly. The mare seemed rejuvenated by the water and able to go longer between rest periods. When the winding pale green corridor of the San Pedro came into view with its thickly leafed out cottonwoods and willows, Holliday was vastly relieved.

By that time he, too, was limping badly from the bruised knee and McMasters had offered his mount, but Doc declined. Maybe it was just his stubborn pride that made him turn down the ride. Maybe that or the fact he really did not know Sherman well enough to allow the man to see any further weakness.

At the river, Holliday led the mare to the water and allowed her to drink, but watched that she didn't overdo. He pulled off his boots and socks and crouching down in the shallows drank his fill before scrubbing the heat and dirt from his face and neck. McMasters had done the same with his horse and was now drinking and washing with equal enthusiasm.

Going to the mare, Doc unsaddled her and then unwrapped the swollen leg, leading her into the center of the river. Even there, in the deepest part, the water was only just past a man's knees. The rocks beneath his feet were smooth and slick, but the water flowed slowly and there was no worry about losing his footing.

Using the scarf, Doc bathed the animal's side where she'd been scraped in the fall, continuing until her entire coat had been washed and wet down. She tossed her head in approval, leaning down to drink when the need arose and turning her head to nibble affectionately at Holliday's sleeve.

The cold mountain runoff felt good against Doc's sore knee as well and by the time he led the mare out, he could bend the joint with little difficulty. With the dried blood washed away it no longer stuck injury to trousers either and that was a relief. He hoped the river had worked its magic on the horse.

Taking a bar towel from his saddlebag he went about rubbing the mare down. While Doc was so occupied McMasters knelt by her front leg and felt the tendon. "Still swollen but I swear, it's better by half. Oughta be wrapped again though."

Not waiting for Holliday to reply, McMasters stood up and untied the sash from his waist. Pulling a folding knife out of a deep trouser pocket, he proceeded to cut the length of fabric in half. Crouching, he gently wrapped the mare's leg in the red material.

Doc watched the man work and when McMasters stood up he was met with a wry smile. "Won't you miss that red sash, Sherman?"

"Not in the least, Doc. Glad I could put it to good use and anyways, I quit them boys a while back."

"That might explain a few things." Holliday withdrew two cigars from his waistcoat pocket, extending one to McMasters. "Join me?"

"Glad to." As McMasters lit the cigar and got it drawing well he asked, "You got any chuck with ya, Doc? We'll be stayin' the night and supplies might come in handy. I got some bacon and a can a beans, coffee, too, and a pot."

"I always come prepared, Mr. McMasters." Again Doc smiled as he reached into his saddlebags bringing out an unopened bottle of good whiskey in one hand and half a dozen fine cigars in the other.

"Hell, Doc, what more could a man want?" The ex-Cowboy grinned.

"What else indeed," Holliday countered.

McMasters got a fire going and was just putting the finishing touches on a pot of coffee when a group of riders appeared. They swept down on the small camp bristling with armament, rough men wearing scowls.

Immediately Sherman rose from his crouch and raised both hands. Glancing around, he noticed Holliday walking up from the riverbank, taking his time, his expression nonplussed and McMasters wondered if there was anything that rattled Doc Holliday.

"What's going on here?" The leader of the horseman demanded. It took no little skill to control the black stallion upon which he sat as the stud whirled, reared and stomped in recognition of Holliday's mare. Yet the stranger seemed the type who easily controlled any situation in which he found himself. A shotgun lay across his pommel and his words were directed at McMasters, but it was Holliday who replied.

"Nothing's going on, Wyatt. Not a thing. This gentleman, Sherman McMasters, was just getting some supper ready. Won't you join us?"

McMasters glanced over at Holliday, then up at the man on the black. Like he'd never seen the gambler in the daylight, neither had he ever seen Wyatt Earp other than in the dark. Well, he was sure as hell seeing him now and he recognized the men with him, Texas Jack Vermillion and Creek Johnson. The two frontiersmen nodded at McMasters, relaxing in their saddles, shotguns now pointed at the ground. Obviously they'd seen him around as well and found nothing to cause concern in any earlier behavior.

McMasters remembered a previous encounter with Earp. It was his information that had allowed Wyatt to retrieve Naylor, the black stallion he favored and which he now rode, after the animal was stolen some time back. At Holliday's mention of his name, Sherman saw recognition register on Earp's face. Wyatt nodded and the air of menacing danger eased off, though it didn't disappear completely. That would take time.

Over a supper of beans, bacon and coffee with whiskey and cigar chasers, the story of how Sherman McMasters and John Holliday became traveling partners was told. Though it would indeed take time and no small effort on McMasters' part, he would become one of the trusted few, one of the inner circle of men around whom controversy and questions would swirl for years to come. It was a bond which would last literally through hell and high water and came about because two men decided to take a chance and trust one another.

END


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